


Promises and Pomegranates

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, but a happy ending, my kink is healthy supportive relationships, prompt: absence, slight angst, winter warmers 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23857849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: Winter half-term begins, but Hecate and Ada are still enmeshed in a fight.The problem is, neither knows how to properly end it.
Relationships: Amelia Cackle | Ada Cackle/Hardbroom
Comments: 25
Kudos: 43





	Promises and Pomegranates

**Author's Note:**

> So....this is another piece I wrote for the Winter Warmers event, and then didn't finish in time. The prompt was absence.

It’s a bit odd, missing someone who’s quite literally still there. And yet, Hecate awakes with the feeling of _missing_ as she slowly pushes herself up, wriggling back against the headboard to look down at her wife, fast asleep.

During the night, Ada always shifts and tosses and turns. Now she’s facing Hecate, expression peacefully devoid of worry—but when they first go to bed, she’s always facing the other way. Usually Hecate simply curls around her, happily holding her tight. But recently the curve of Ada’s shoulder has become like some impenetrable mountain that Hecate can’t scale.

It’s Hecate’s fault, she knows. But it’s also Ada’s. That part makes it difficult—if the blame were solely Hecate’s, she could easily (well, alright, perhaps not _quite_ so easily) apologize, make amends. But if she apologizes now, for this, it feels as if she’s…admitting to things she can’t quite admit to. Accepting fault that isn’t entirely hers to accept.

They both made choices. They both still feel those choices were the right ones—and truly, Hecate thinks they were. They each made the best choice, the right choice, for themselves. It’s just that the best and right thing for each is diametrically opposed to the best and right thing for the other.

How does one reconcile that? Hecate doesn’t know. She worries her bottom lip as she continues watching her sleeping wife. The coppery bite of blood blossoms across her tongue and she gingerly touches the spot now radiating with soft pain.

She should drink more water. With a raw, almost petulant feeling, she thinks that normally, Ada would be the one to point it out, to remind her. But the distance between them robs them of so many little things.

With a frustrated air, Hecate whips the covers back and slides out of bed. And then, despite her frustration, despite her loss and her anger, she stops and gently pulls the covers back up, keeping Ada wrapped up in her little warm cocoon. It’s the first day of winter half-term, the woman has earned the right to sleep for as long as she wants, perfectly comfortable in every way.

_I love you_ , her heart clenches as she looks down at her wife. Those words are harder to say aloud right now, but she takes some comfort in knowing that Ada still knows _. I love you, even when I don’t like you._

She slides into her slippers and puts on her winter robe, the inside lined with the soft black mink that makes her skin feel absolutely adored, and makes her way to Ada’s office.

It’s odd, she realizes, that she still comes here to think, to quietly prepare for her day. She has her own chambers, her own personal office to which she could go—but if she’s being honest, she also knows why she chooses here, why she lights the fire and makes a pot of tea and sits in her usual chair.

She wants to be in Ada’s way. Not in an obtrusive or obstructive manner, just… _here_ , around, available, if Ada wants to bridge the gap. If Ada can find a way to bridge the gap, because Hecate surely can’t, even as much as she wants to.

She can’t apologize for something she doesn’t regret. It isn’t in her nature. Nor is it in Ada’s. Hence the stalemate.

Plus, it’s been so busy, with all the usual end-of-term hullaballoo, further compounded by the Yuletide holiday planning. This will be one of those conversations that is long and aching and ugly—they haven’t had the luxury of being consumed by their personal lives, even if the whole issue in their personal lives is entirely due to a decision in their professional ones.

Now they have time. They have hours of it, days and weeks of it. Hecate’s stomach sours at the thought that one of their precious holidays could be ruined by something work-related.

She won’t let it be, she decides. Ada won’t either, she knows—this is Ada’s favorite time of year, she won’t let anything keep her from the joyful spirit of the season, no matter what.

Of course, Ada first has to wake. And then…they have to find some way to begin a conversation that they’ve been putting off for nearly a month now, a conversation that has grown into its own little goblin, pushing against them, between them, pushing them emotionally and physically apart.

Hecate calls a book into her hands with a sigh, eager to at least attempt distracting herself. A few minutes later, Pendle and Morgana appear, looking far too satisfied with themselves—Goddess only knows what havoc they’ve wrought during the night, with a whole castle practically to themselves. Their bond is completely unaffected by the rift between their mistresses. Not for the first time, Hecate finds herself envious of the two familiars and the simplicity of their lives.

Within seconds, the cats are clambering up her legs, vying for attention with meows and headbutts against her chest. Her book vanishes and she pets one with each hand. They both purr loudly, tails swishing with satisfaction.

“Brats, the both of you,” she admonishes, gathering them into a hug and nuzzling into their dark, soft fur. The cats obviously sense her need for comfort and do not wriggle out of her embrace—heavens, she must be obscenely pitiful, to win their cooperation. Regardless, she’ll take the pity and the affection where she can get it.

She hears a stirring from down the hall and quietly releases the cats, calling her book back into her hands. She tries to regain focus on her reading, tries to keep her expression as open and unbothered as possible (see how ridiculous this fight has made her, that she must take on such pretense with her own wife?).

She can hear this little stuttering half-step Ada takes before entering, can feel the way her wife takes a breath to steady herself before bustling into the doorway with a cheery air (so Hecate’s not the only one trying to put on a brave face, but the thought only makes her ache instead of feel comforted, because this feels awful and she hates that Ada feels it, too).

“Good morning,” Ada coos, and it’s obviously directed at the cats. Still, Hecate glances up in mild recognition.

Of course, Ada is wearing one of her ridiculous holiday jumpers. It’s all tinsel and magic sparkle, absolutely gaudy in a way that usually makes Hecate’s cheeks twinge in the best of ways, because of the happiness it makes bubble up from her heart, all the way to her smiling mouth.

Normally, Hecate would make a quip about the sweater. Roll her eyes and feign exasperation, though she’d still be smiling. But the words die behind her teeth—it’s still too raw between them, and her words, however kindly they’d be meant, would still seem too harsh, too sharp to Ada’s still-very-tender heart.

Hecate might have said some rather biting things, when they’d last discussed the issue. It might be exactly why they haven’t spoken about it since. Ada is brave but she still tries to avoid pain just like any other human. And Hecate, when upset, can be painful.

So instead, Hecate simply offers a small, but still pleasant, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Ada returns, feeling a small ease in the tension that had been waiting in her lungs, as soon as she awoke this morning. Hecate always wakes first, but she usually stays in bed to read—well, she hasn’t done that for nearly three weeks now, so why should today have been any different?

They have to unpack it all, Ada knows. It’s the only way forward. It’s just—they’ve left it off for so long, how do they start, how does she say the thing that will make them begin this, make them end this?

_I promise to never lie to you._ That had been in the vows Ada had written herself, reciting to Hecate as they held hands in the garden and quietly declared _forever_. She’d quickly amended that she still retained the right to lie about surprises and other fun things (which made Hecate roll her eyes and Gwen, their officiant, laugh). But when it came to the big things, the important things, she’d never lie.

She’d promised other things, too. And meant them all just as much. But later, Hecate had quietly told her that particular promise had meant the most. It was a promise no one had ever made to her before, and it was something she’d never ask of Ada—the fact that Ada had given such a promise so freely, so far beyond any expectation Hecate had ever had, was awe-inspiring to Hecate.

Ada wouldn’t break the promise now by saying she was sorry for her decision. Besides, Hecate would know—she would know it was a lie and would know that finally, Ada had broken her vow.

What else could she say? The rest sounded awful and hollow. _I’m sorry you’re upset. I’m sorry my decision upsets you but I’m not sorry I made it._ _I’m sorry we’re like this now. I’m sorry I had to make a choice that made us this way._

She goes over to her desk, absentmindedly shuffling through the papers upon it, looking for something to do rather that something in particular.

“I’ve made tea,” Hecate’s voice is quiet, barely audible over the rustling of papers. Ada stops, turns back, sees the tea service, already between their two chairs.

“Oh, that’s lovely, thank you,” Ada moves closer, grateful for an excuse of something to do. She notes that Hecate hasn’t made herself a cup, which means this was entirely for Ada’s benefit. Ada’s heart clenches at the small, soft gesture—she knows her wife, knows her love language, knows this to be some small olive branch, knows that Hecate chose to read in here this morning so that she could see Ada, so that Ada could know that she wasn’t angry anymore.

However, Hecate ducks her head as Ada approaches, focusing intently upon her reading.

Desperate for something to say, Ada points out, “You’re still in your nightgown.”

Hecate looks down, as if she hadn’t realized. She hums, “Yes, I—I guess I am.”

It takes her a moment to process why she’d left their chambers without fully dressing for the day—of course, it’s the first day of a holiday. Normally, she doesn’t dress till closer to noon, the first day of half-term. Because while she always wakes early, it is almost a guarantee that Ada will have her undressed for most of the morning ( _almost_ a guarantee, because obviously it didn’t happen today, and once again, Hecate feels as if their holiday is somehow already fully ruined by this deviation in their usual rituals).

Ada comes to the same realization at almost the same time, feeling a measure of sadness as she does.

“I—I suppose I should…” Hecate shifts, gingerly rises to her feet. In a flash, she’s fully dressed for the day, her skin screaming at the sudden loss of the weighted and soft warmth of her dressing robe, replaced by colder and scratchier fabric. Her hands flex involuntarily at the sudden change.

There’s a mournfulness in the way Hecate resumes her seat—Ada’s throat tightens in response. She ducks her head, focuses on making a cup of tea. She clears her throat, gingerly extending the cup on its saucer towards her wife, who looks up in mild surprise but takes the tea with a soft hum of gratitude. Ada fixes her own tea before taking her seat.

The air is heavy and tense between them. Not that it’s been particularly light and easy over the past few weeks, but at least they’d had other matters to discuss—now it’s all over and they’re left with just themselves, just their own lives, their own life together.

Except it currently doesn’t _feel_ very together, Ada opines. Hecate is reading again, not looking at her again, and she feels the absence of Hecate’s gaze—just as she has felt the absence of her touches and her kisses and her emotional presence and her body pressed so close against her own—like the earth feels the absence of the sun, like the sea feels the loss of the moon.

She downs the rest of her tea, the burn in her throat a welcome distraction from the ache in her heart. Then she rises to her feet, forcing a cheeriness into her voice that she doesn’t truly feel, “Well, I’m off to deck the halls.”

The same joke she makes every year, though it’s an absolute truth. The same one that makes her wife smirk and roll her eyes—or usually it does. Instead, Hecate merely nods, the slight slump in her shoulders telling Ada that somehow, she’s disappointed her yet again.

Ada slips out of the room and Hecate worries her bottom lip, unsurprised to taste blood again.

Ada doesn’t know how to fix this either, she realizes. Hecate had convinced herself that Ada had merely been waiting until term was over to discuss it again—but obviously, Ada had been waiting to find the right thing to say, which she apparently still hasn’t found.

Panic seizes in Hecate’s chest. She doesn’t have an answer, she _needs_ Ada to have one. She needs Ada to pull them back to safety, back together, back to all the things that are so much bigger than this moment, this disagreement. Fear and adrenaline have run her ragged over the past few weeks, she has nothing left but tears, which spring up easily enough.

She forces herself to stay seated, to read her book, to deny herself the cheer of Ada’s presence.

* * *

It is after noon when Hecate finishes her book, her stomach roiling from being deprived of food all day. She looks around, half-certain that Ada’s in a similar state—the woman gets wrapped up in her decorating, both literally and figuratively.

Hecate transfers herself to the kitchens, feeling a measure of gratitude to Miss Tapioca, who had everything restocked just before the holiday—Hecate takes care of the kitchen the same way she takes care of her lab, and Miss Tapioca appreciates it, shows it in little ways like making sure the pantry is filled with all of Hecate and Ada’s favorites before every half-term begins.

Hecate sets to making rosemary bread, though it won’t be ready until dinner. With an uneasy heart, she wonders if their situation will be different by then. She pushes herself to focus on other things, making lunch for them both.

There is a bowl in the pantry, filled with what must be some of the very first pomegranates of the season. She gingerly cuts one in half, placing each piece on their respective plates.

She thinks of what it symbolizes, how it’s always reminded her of their story, together. The parallels between the myth of Persephone and Ada’s choice to love her, a woman forever trapped at Cackle’s, have never been unnoticed by Hecate. While Ada had a far deeper tie to the school than Persephone had to the Underworld before her arrival, she still had the choice to leave—and she chose to stay. Eventually, her choice was specifically to stay with Hecate. In the early days, Hecate sometimes wondered if Ada regretted the choice, or if she would someday come to regret it—but after so many years, she knows that, even now, in the midst of this unhappiness, Ada doesn’t want to be anywhere else in the world than right here, with her. Hecate’s little floral goddess ate every seed in her pomegranate, knowing full well the measure of her actions.

The thought makes Hecate delicately pick out a single seed. There’s a smile in her heart that doesn’t quite reach her face. Ada has always been one of the most strong-willed people Hecate has ever met—there isn’t a chance in heaven or hell of making her change her mind on something she truly believes in.

And Ada truly believes in them, in their love. Hecate has known this, but the reminder is still good, still helpful. Sometimes you bite into a seed that’s bitter, but that doesn’t stop you from eating more—at least it shouldn’t, she thinks.

This moment is a bitter seed. They have sweeter ones coming. She knows this, feels it in her bones. They just have to find a way to the next one, the next moment, the next page of their story.

She delicately arranges the plate before casting a locating spell, easily transferring to whichever hall Ada is currently bedecking in garland and glitter.

Ada laughs sheepishly when she sees the plate of food, and Hecate knows her assumption was correct—the woman has lost all track of time in her spreading of holiday cheer.

Despite the sourness between them, Hecate still loves that laugh, that smile, that woman. She looks up at the decorations and quietly comments, “Looks lovely.”

Hecate’s tone is soft, etched with kindness. Ada understands it’s another invitation, another olive branch. As usual, her wife’s poker face is serene, but her expressive hands give her away—they’re clutching onto the plate so tightly that her knuckles are as white as the porcelain.

“Thank you,” Ada says simply, letting her own tone match. Hecate looks back to her with a small smile, one that doesn’t make her eyes shine like they usually do when looking at Ada.

They both know what comes next, and they’re both equally lost. Still, it is Ada who promised to never lie, and she feels that by continuing to pretend as if nothing’s wrong is a bit of a lie, in a way.

So she ducks her head and quietly begins, “I know you’re still hurting over all this. And I—I never wanted that.”

Hecate nods stiffly, makes a sound between a hum of agreement and simply clearing her throat. Almost inaudibly, she says, “I know.”

There’s a measure of forgiveness in those two simple words. Still, they’ve a long way yet to go, Ada knows.

“I’m not,” Ada begins, clears her throat, tries again. “I don’t expect we’ll ever agree, not on this one, my love. And I understand that.”

“I do, too,” Hecate quietly admits. They’ve already been over this, before, during their last discussion, after their real fight, when Hecate had said such awful things. It isn’t about resolving an issue—it’s about moving past it.

“I just…” Ada gives a helpless flop of her hands. “I know, it’s almost unreconcilable—”

The word makes Hecate’s head snap up, eyes wide with alarm. She is still, impossibly still, like a single word from Ada might shatter her entirely.

Ada’s heart aches from the fear she feels radiating from her wife. She steps forward, lightly raising her hands as if to touch her, comfort her, but doesn’t actually make contact. Still, they hover, still there, still ready, if Hecate wants them. “But I love you, and I’m not—I’m not upset with you, Hecate. I haven’t been for a while now—”

“I said some terrible things,” Hecate points out slowly. Not that Ada truly needs the reminder.

“You did,” Ada agrees, forever keeping her promise to never lie. “But some of them were still quite true. And I’ve been…trying, to be better about those things, or to at least figure out _how_ to be. Because you have every right to be upset with me, with this situation. I understand why you feel the way you do, and I know I would feel the same, if our stories were reversed. I don’t fault you, my love. I just…can’t change this.”

Hecate nods again, eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. Some of these things have already been said—yes, they both understood the other’s reasoning behind their stance, though neither could allow themselves to change their own. Some of these things have not been said—Hecate has felt that Ada’s frustration at the situation had been directed at her specifically, at her stubbornness, her inability to let go of the past, her fear and her anxiety, her _everything_ that has always been too much for any one person to handle, though Ada has never shied away from the challenge.

“I know,” she reassures her wife. “And I know…the decisions we each made were from a place of good intent, for both of us. And I’m—I’m _trying_ , Ada, I promise I’m trying. I’m still not at the same place you are, but I promise I’ll try—”

Ada stops her by simply taking the plate from her hand, sending it floating away to a safer distance so that she can hold Hecate’s hands in hers. “You don’t have to try, my dear. _That’s_ what I’m saying. I don’t care if you don’t agree with me—I mean, I do, of course I do, your opinion and your approval means very much to me, but…I don’t need you to re-arrange your entire self just to agree with this one decision. I love _you_ , as you are. And part of you—a part that I love, along with all the rest—can’t agree with this. That’s alright. I mean—it’s alright if _you’re_ alright with us not agreeing.”

It isn’t the first time they’ve agreed to disagree—it’s just the first time they’ve had to do it with something this monumental.

Hecate nods thickly, fingers curling into Ada’s palms, grateful for the contact. It’s a frustrating situation and they’re both frustrated, but not at each other, she realizes. They aren’t in agreement but they can still be in harmony.

“I know I’m asking a lot,” Ada’s eyes are shining too, her voice thick with tears. “But…can you forgive me?”

Hecate blinks, shocked that Ada would even have to ask, “Of course, Ada, I—I already have. I just…I didn’t know how to…how to move past.”

The relief slipping over the face she loves so well makes Hecate realize that she hasn’t been the only one fearing that her partner’s frustration was specifically directed at her.

“Ada,” she shifts just a little closer, her heart aching at the thought that her sweet wife has suffered with this awful feeling for so long. “I don’t fault you either—I know, I was harsh, and I’m sure it made you feel—I’m sorry. Even if some of the things I said were true, I should have said them in a kinder way. And I hate that you felt—that it made you think, for even a second, that I didn’t understand or that I didn’t forgive you or that I don’t still love you—”

Her breath catches in emotion, a small, sharp little shuddering sound that makes Ada realize her wife is about to start crying—the body-shaking, sloppy crying that usually only surfaces when someone has died or when they’ve stared down death themselves. Ada practically tackles Hecate into a hug, holding onto her fiercely.

“I didn’t think that,” Ada assures her, face half-buried in Hecate’s shoulder. “I know you love me, I always know.”

Now Hecate’s smiling down at her, though still painful and bittersweet. “I always do, too.”

She places a kiss on Ada’s forehead, like sealing a pact. Ada’s throat tightens with more tears.

“So,” Hecate shifts back again. “How…do we….”

Right. The true matter at hand. The love is still there and the anger isn’t directed at each other, but the situation itself still exists, still needs to be handled in some kind of way.

“We just…do,” Ada suggests, still a little lost. However, Hecate is nodding in agreement, as if her words make sense. There’s a little more space between them, but Hecate’s hands are still on her hips, still anchoring her. “And I think we should just be open about things. If there’s still a moment where you need some space to process, you can tell me and I can give you that space.”

Hecate nods again, feeling another wash of emotion. It’s so much like when Ada promised to never lie in her marriage vows—never before has anyone given her this kind of option, given her the ability to take space and time without begrudging or guilt-tripping or inducing some form of anxiety and self-loathing. She realizes that Ada has given her this, for quite some time, though it’s never been formally announced, so Hecate hadn’t truly recognized it until now.

“Right,” she agrees. For now, she doesn’t want space. She wants Ada, near her, back in their usual easy familiarity. She glances over at the plate, still floating a few feet away. “Would you—I’d like for us to have space, together. Just…being together, again.”

Ada understands what she’s trying to say— _I just want us to be together like we usually are, without the tension or awful feelings or misunderstandings. Like we’re meant to be._

“That sounds lovely,” Ada beams in agreement. This time, Hecate’s smile isn’t painful or small.

“Then join me for lunch,” Hecate decrees. The plate disappears, already transported back to the kitchens. It’s next to her plate again, the two pomegranate halves mirroring each other.

“A working lunch?” Ada guesses. After all, they each have their rituals—she’ll decorate the castle from top to bottom and Hecate will spend hours upon hours creating pies with ridiculously intricate designs on the crusts, even though they’ll be the only two who see them. Just another part of her unspoken love language.

Hecate merely hums in confirmation, whisking them away in a transfer spell. Ada sits at the end of the long wooden table as Hecate makes a batch of dough, rolling it out and taking small breaks to eat a bit of her lunch, here and there. The conversation starts a little stilted and awkwardly at first, but soon they find themselves again, find their rhythm and their familiarity. When Ada finishes her meal, she comes closer, sitting on the edge of the prep table like she’s a young girl instead of a witch on the far side of sixty. Ada says something amusing and Hecate stops her rolling long enough to lean over and kiss her, impulsively and easily as if there isn’t a thing wrong between them (and there isn’t, not really, not anymore, and Hecate’s heart soars at the realization).

Ada’s mouth tastes like pomegranate. Sweet and rich and full of promise. Hecate thinks this must be how Hades feels, every time Persephone returns for winter. It’s supposed to be a season of darkness and death, but in this warm kitchen, in the sweetness of this woman’s love, Hecate feels like spring, blossoming with hope and light.


End file.
